


Even So Swiftly

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the glittering surroundings of Tsar Arkadii's ball, Sir Ardsley Wooster knows he must be on his guard against the unknown person who is trying to kill him; yet he also does not know what factors will tilt the balance in his favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even So Swiftly

**Author's Note:**

> This follows immediately on from "A Deadly Game", and refers heavily to events in that story.

“Oh, Ardsley,” said Gil. “Just the person I wanted to see. You'll be interested to hear I've...” He broke off. “Ah! I see you've got an invitation from Tsar Arkadii.”

Sir Ardsley tucked the envelope inside his coat. “Yes; I was just going to talk to you about that, but since it's obvious you have one yourself, I can put it away. I was sure you would have, but I needed to check, because I shall have to have clearance from London to go to Moscow and I'll get it a great deal more easily if you're also going.”

“Oh, I'm going all right,” said Gil. “Wouldn't miss it for the world. Besides, Agatha will be there.” He grinned boyishly at his friend. “I expect at least six dances.”

“I... ah... I trust Tarvek Sturmvoraus doesn't have the same idea,” said Sir Ardsley. “I'm sure he will also have been invited. From the sound of things, I suspect I will be one of the few people there who isn't either a crowned head, related to one, or one of the Ambassadors to Russia itself.”

“Sturmvoraus is welcome to get wound,” said Gil impishly. “I am going to look my smooth, sophisticated best.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” replied Sir Ardsley, with a grin. “Now, on the subject of collars...”

Gil aimed a mock punch at him. “I am _not_ walking around with a collar full of starch and ironmongery. It's not as if Agatha would notice, anyway.”

“Oh, but the effect...”

“...works a great deal better on a man with a long neck like yours,” Gil finished for him. “You keep your stiff detachable collars. I'm sticking with comfortable ones and a really splendid coat and waistcoat. I think I'll have something made up specially. Maybe a different colour this time. I wear a lot of blue – what do you think about green for a change?”

“Yes, I think green would work very well. Or perhaps purple. But I'm sorry – what were you about to tell me when I came in?”

“Oh, sweet lightning, yes.” Gil's face turned suddenly serious. “I think you'd better sit down, Ardsley. The news is certainly interesting, but not very pleasant.”

Sir Ardsley perched on the edge of Gil's lab bench. “Is it about that assassin, by any chance? Mr Forrest told me he and your Mr Willis had recovered some notebooks written in code. Have you deciphered them yet? Mr Forrest and I may be able to help you with that, if you need us.”

“Well, yes and no,” said Gil. “Yes, it's about the assassin, but no, it's not about the notebooks. We cracked that code easily enough, but it didn't give us much to go on, except that I now think I was hasty in suspecting the Master of Paris. There's something about the style that is... just not French, somehow. But there are no names, no places, nothing to identify who was paying the girl. It was mostly notes about things like my security. And your movements.”

“H'mm,” said Sir Ardsley. “If it's not about the notebooks, then it's about the poison. You've analysed it now, yes?”

Gil nodded soberly. “Oh yes. Now I know why that girl wouldn't drink the tea.”

“Ah,” said Sir Ardsley. “You'd better tell me how she intended me to die. I've got a reasonably strong stomach, I think.”

“Oh, it was fiendish,” said Gil. “It took me a while to work it out; this isn't an ordinary poison. This is something new, devised by a spark. What it does is to simulate the effects of bubonic plague, pretty exactly.”

Sir Ardsley's eyes widened. “That's clever. In an extremely horrible way. Nobody would think of performing an autopsy on a supposed plague victim. You'd have sent me back to England in a sealed coffin, and nobody over there would have dared to open it.”

“Yes. Murder about the most foul I can think of, and I've got a decent imagination,” said Gil. “Needless to say, I'm now working on an antidote. It's not proving very easy, though. I may be a damn good spark, but the chemical side of things isn't my strong suit.”

“Talk to Violetta?” Sir Ardsley suggested. “Not a spark, of course, but... that's very much her line of expertise.”

“I may well. In the meantime, if I can't yet counter it, at least I can now detect it.” Gil reached across the bench and held up a little bundle of slips of yellow blotting paper. “You'd better take these, Ardsley, in case there's another attempt by the same method. If one of these slips comes into contact with the poison, it will turn green.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Ardsley, tucking the bundle into one of his many waistcoat pockets. “That will be very useful.”

Some six weeks later, Sir Ardsley stood at the top of an enormous marble staircase in the Tsar's palace, listening to the stentorian bass voice of a footman announcing, “His Highness, Baron Gilgamesh Wulfenbach!” to the assembled party below. Gil, resplendent in purple and silver (he had hesitated so long between that and the green that, if Agatha had been shopping with him, she would certainly have got bored and wandered off), walked down the stairs in a stately and utterly confident fashion.

My turn next, thought Sir Ardsley. It's all very well for Gil. He was born to this sort of thing. I'm just a scholarship boy who got into Winchester and... well. Did pretty well, all things considered. But I'm still not a gentleman born.

“His Excellency Sir Ardsley Wooster, British Ambassador to the Wulfenbach Empire!”

Oh, get on with it, Wooster, he thought. At least look the part.

So he imitated Gil's serene progress down the stairs so well that nobody looking at him could possibly have guessed that he was as nervous as he had been the day he had to walk up in front of the school governors to collect his first Classics prize. This evening he was all in white, with gold trim; usually he went for reds contrasted with greys or blues, but Gil had pointed out that there would be no English royalty present, therefore he was going to have to look especially splendid as one of his country's only two representatives (the other, of course, being the British Ambassador to Russia). He had, therefore, as he put it himself, rather pushed the boat out.

“Why,” said a voice close to his ear. “You are an Ambassador now, are you? A well-deserved honour. But you look like a prince.”

Sir Ardsley turned, and stared. Of course, he thought. Of course. I shouldn't be so surprised, for goodness' sake. I knew it was safe for her to return to Russia, so now, after all these years, where else would she be?

He bowed. “Princess Orlov,” he said. “It is a very great pleasure to see you again, after so long.”

She had to be over fifty now; though her face looked younger than that, her cropped hair was grey, and her figure was a little fuller than it had been on the fateful day when he had saved her life in Paris. But she was still effortlessly elegant in her masculine attire, still warm, still smiling, still unmistakably the Princess he had once loved to distraction.

She must have read that in his face, for she smiled and said, “You are married now, I hope?”

“Indeed I am,” he replied, with some relief. He had been wondering how to broach that subject without making the past obvious.

“I am glad. So am I. That is my husband over there.” She indicated a thick-set, military-looking gentleman with a large, full beard. “That is Andrei Nikolaievich Andropov; but I am still the Princess Orlov. I kept my name. He is a relative of our Tsar Arkadii.”

Sir Ardsley beamed. “I, too, am glad,” he said. “I had always hoped you were happy. It is good to know that you are.”

“That is how I always thought about you, too.” She gave him her warmest smile. “And now, an Ambassador! That is wonderful. So much less dangerous than your former career. I shall rest easy on your account now.”

Sir Ardsley did all he could to keep the pain out of his smile. Yes, he thought, rest easy, Princess, for I will not tell you there is still someone who is out to kill me.

And, in all probability, they are here.

There was a welcome distraction at that point. The Polish royal family had just arrived; this consisted of Queen Ewa, Crown Prince Wladyslaw, Princess Sylwia, and two younger princes. Sir Ardsley was well aware that Princess Sylwia was likely to be one of the reasons for this massive ball. Tsar Arkadii was thinking of getting married, but, being a practical young man, he was not content with a mere political alliance; he also wanted a wife he could reasonably live with. Princess Sylwia, being not only Polish royalty but a very personable young lady by all accounts, seemed to be a strong candidate.

As they swept past, Queen Ewa dropped her fan. Sir Ardsley automatically picked it up and returned it to her with a brief nod. It was nothing, a gesture he would have made for anyone, but it saved him from meeting Princess Orlov's eyes at that moment, and for that he was grateful. She was clever. She could read him. Let her not read that he was in any danger.

Andropov bustled up to his wife. “Darling,” he said, “Lady Erzsebet is here. You wanted to meet her, did you not?”

“I did,” she agreed. “Later, perhaps, Sir Ardsley.”

“Of course.” A butler shimmered up to him with a tray of drinks; he took a glass of red wine and thanked the man. He thought of the slips of yellow paper in his pocket, but no. Nobody could have predicted which glass he would take. Not the wine, then.

He stood for a while, looking round the rest of the guests. Gil had found Agatha and was talking her ear off. Tarvek Sturmvoraus had not yet arrived, but there was no doubt that he would, and then things would get... interesting. Still, that was unlikely to be his problem these days. Queen Ewa, glittering like emeralds in a dress made of some fabric she had devised herself, was introducing her daughter to Tsar Arkadii. Princess Sylwia was dressed in the same fabric, but in red, with undertones of gold. The Tsar looked quite struck with her, and Sir Ardsley could understand it; she was a stunning young woman. She had that curious natural combination of very pale skin and jet-black hair which catches the eye so readily, and she had used every artifice in her possession to make the most of it.

“Oh, it's you,” said a voice at knee level.

Sir Ardsley looked down. “Ah, Krosp. Smooth, sophisticated and subtle as ever.”

“Yeah, that's me. You look like a tailor's dummy.”

Sir Ardsley grinned. For all the cat's deliberately abrasive style, he knew it was meant as a compliment.

“Well, Gil said I needed to put on a bit of a show. How are you getting on? Is there an Empress of Cats yet?”

Krosp rolled his eyes. “You think I could give anyone that title? There'd be a massive fight if I did.”

“Ah. So you have a harem?”

“What do you expect? I'm a damn tomcat.”

Sir Ardsley crouched down. “Yes,” he said. “And a clever one. And I was obviously not able to bring my bodyguard with me. Can I ask you to keep half an eye out for me?”

“Oh? Who's trying to kill you this time?”

“I'm not sure, but it's a good guess they're here,” replied Sir Ardsley. “It's politics. Someone wants to destabilise our alliance. They've already tried once; whoever they are, they're good enough to get an agent on board Castle Wulfenbach.”

“Ahem,” said Krosp.

“Yes. I know. But the difference is that I didn't try to kill anyone.”

“All right. My price is that when you've finished with that coat, I want it cut down to my size and sent over. Care of Agatha.”

“You'll make a wonderful tailor's dummy, Krosp. Thank you. You have a deal. In fact, I'll do better than that; I'll have another one like it made up for you specially.”

“Can't fault that,” said Krosp, and vanished into the crowd.

Sir Ardsley straightened up. How that cat had got himself an invitation to a ball like this was anyone's guess, but it was no bad thing that he had. The stentorian footman at the top of the stairs was now rolling melodiously through a whole ocean of titles, and it was easy enough to tell who owned them before he got anywhere close to “Storm King”. Ah, so Tarvek Sturmvoraus had finally arrived; and now here he was, doing the obligatory stately walk down the stairs, turned out to the nines in a beautiful dark green that set off his unusual red hair.

Sir Ardsley was suddenly very glad that Gil had gone for the purple.

He took a sip of his wine as he watched Tarvek make a beeline for Agatha and Gil. Ah yes, he thought. Here we go. One should really never mix love and politics, but, even with the best will in the world, it can't always be helped. Well... if Gil needs a diplomat, he knows he has only to indicate.

He had a dance card, and he supposed he had better start filling it. He was sure that Princess Orlov would be happy to take a turn round the floor with him for old times' sake, but in the circumstances he could not ask her for more than one dance. It might, he reflected, be worth asking Lady Heterodyne. They had always got on pretty well, and she might appreciate a short break from the torrent of undying adoration which was coming her way at the moment from Gil and Tarvek. Beyond those two, however, it was starting to look difficult. He was not sure he knew any other lady present well enough to ask her to dance, and he was uneasily conscious of the fact that they all outranked him. Of course, so did both the Princess and Lady Heterodyne, but that was different. They knew him.

He was looking at the card, and around the room, when Queen Ewa of Poland, all emerald shimmer and exquisite scent, glided up to him. “You are Sir Ardsley Wooster, are you not?” she asked, in Russian.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I am, Your Majesty,” he replied, switching politely and effortlessly to Polish.

She gave him a teasing smile. “A tall, elegant Englishman like you, and you are wondering how you are to fill your dance card?” she asked.

“Certainly I am, Your Majesty. I am not royalty like most people here. I am merely an Ambassador.”

“Tch! But clearly you are a friend of Tsar Arkadii, or he would not have invited you,” she said. “Therefore we are all equal here. Let me see. I, too, have some spaces on my dance card. Perhaps we could therefore assist each other?”

Sir Ardsley bowed, astonished. “You do me too much honour, Your Majesty. But if you wish to dance with me, then it will be a pleasure to do as you wish.”

“The first dance?” She took his card, and wrote her name firmly in the first space; then she handed him her own so that he could return the formality. “There! Now you may ask any lady in the room to dance without anxiety, for if you are good enough for me, you are good enough for them all.” She gave him a dazzling smile.

“You are most kind, Your Majesty,” he said.

The fan, he thought. She dropped her fan, and I picked it up for her. I had no idea she had even noticed me. I wasn't intending to be noticed, just to return her fan. I... wasn't expecting this.

Still. A dance is a dance.

Queen Ewa was quite correct. Filling up the rest of his dance card proved to be no further problem. Princess Orlov naturally consented very happily to a dance; Sir Ardsley did very nearly back out of asking Agatha, given the proprietary scowls on the faces of both Gil and Tarvek, but Agatha herself made it very clear that she was going to have one dance with him, and if the other two didn't like it they could dance with each other as far as she was concerned, a remark which engendered two exceedingly eloquent facial expressions. Then there was a lady with that odd red tinge to her hair which marked her out as one of the sprawling Valois clan, and who seemed to be sighing occasionally after Gil; she had introduced herself as Xerxsephina von Blitzengaard, and there was something about her which suggested she would be a neat mover on the dance floor. And probably also politically, thought Sir Ardsley, given whose sister she has to be, but as long as she's not actually the person trying to kill me I'm happy to dance. The other ladies were mostly Russian, duchesses and countesses from the Tsar's court; the youngest, who insisted that he call her Anya, was learning English and wanted to practise it on him, which she did in a charming broken accent.

The dancing did not start until after the banquet, by which time Queen Ewa had started to feel a little chilly and donned a light fringed shawl. She approached Sir Ardsley, smiling.

“Our dance, I believe,” she said.

“Yes, indeed, Your Majesty.” He took her arm and led her onto the dance floor.

“I have never heard an Englishman speak Polish so well. Where did you learn? It is delightful that you should have taken the trouble. We are not a very significant country, after all.”

“I cannot remember, I am afraid, Your Majesty. I speak many languages. I do not recall exactly how, where and when I learned them all.”

“Well, you put me to shame, Sir Ardsley; for although I speak Russian and French well, and German after a fashion, I cannot speak English at all. I hope you are not very cross with me,” she added, mischievously.

“I could not possibly be cross with you, Your Majesty,” he assured her. “You have had many other things to concern you apart from learning English.”

She was a good dancer; but the way she smiled and leaned so close to him, even Sir Ardsley began to wonder if she was flirting with him, and he was normally fairly oblivious to anything of that nature. A strange trait, perhaps, in a man who was so observant about everything else, but the simple fact of the matter was that he never expected it to happen.

“I am a little warm now,” she purred, about halfway through the dance. “Excuse me one moment. I must remove my shawl.”

One hand went to the jewelled pin that fastened it, but she kept the other about his waist; and so she fumbled with the pin for a moment, trying to release it from the little clasp that fitted over the point to prevent any accidents, and for a moment she glanced up at him.

 _That_ look he could read. That look he knew only too well. His heart sank, but his hand shot out at lightning speed and closed tightly around her wrist. Then he moved so that his lips were close to her ear.

“I regret this extreme liberty, Your Majesty, but I will take the pin, if you don't mind,” he said.

She stared at him. “What...? How...?”

“How did I know? If you don't wish someone to know you are about to kill him, and you are in two minds about doing it, don't look him in the eye, Your Majesty. Not even for a second.”

She pursed her lips tightly before she spoke again. “Yes. You were a spy. I should have remembered that.”

“What made you forget?” he asked mildly. He brought up his other hand and carefully extracted the little jewelled pin. “No, don't flinch. I don't intend to do to you what I had in mind for your agent, Your Majesty; I now know exactly what the poison does, and I would not inflict that on anyone. My bodyguard had the right idea when he shot your agent between the eyes. She would not have suffered.”

She looked away. “I intended to flirt with you to put you off your guard. I did not intend... to lose my own guard.”

He released her wrist, now that he had the pin securely in his possession; just as an added precaution, he made sure it was pointed at her, so that she could not lunge at him. “Now. Let me just make absolutely certain, although you have for all practical purposes admitted everything, Your Majesty.” He pulled out one of the slips of yellow paper and poked the point of the pin through it. A telltale disc of green spread outwards through the paper.

Something furry brushed against his leg. “You got trouble?”

“Not now,” replied Sir Ardsley. “Krosp, please take this to Gil, and don't touch the point. Make sure nobody touches the point, no matter what happens. It is poisoned.”

“Got you,” said Krosp, and disappeared with it.

Queen Ewa paled. “Baron Wulfenbach?”

“Naturally. It is, after all, as much his business as mine. He will want to know who sent an assassin on board his ship.”

“And... I suppose you will also tell Tsar Arkadii?”

“One of us will. Gil, I expect.”

“Then I will lose any chance I had of marrying Sylwia to him. I will have no alliance with Russia, and I cannot fight both England and the Wulfenbach Empire without one.”

“I know,” said Sir Ardsley. “That is why Tsar Arkadii must be told. I would not wish to be in your position, Your Majesty; but you have put yourself there.”

“And I would not be there if I had not hesitated that once!” she snapped. “One moment. One weak moment, and you read me, you... you handsome devil. I looked up. I am stupid. Stupid!”

“Well,” he said, “the dance is over, Your Majesty. I will ensure that your pin is returned to you, once it has been made harmless.”

“Harmless. Like me, I suppose,” she said, bitterly. “Will your country declare war?”

“Not if I have any say in the matter. I do not want war. Therefore, I suggest that Your Majesty might wish to refrain from any further activities which might, perhaps, be seen as provocation in that direction.”

She glared at him. “Next time I require a man killed, I shall make very sure I do not meet him in person.”

“I suspect I should be flattered by that, Your Majesty. Ah, here is the Lady Heterodyne. I am down to dance with her next.”

Agatha bounced up to Sir Ardsley, grinning. “Come on, quick, before either Gil or Tarvek finds some excuse to drag me away,” she said. “Do you know they've both proposed to me again already? You are going to be such relaxing company...” She stopped suddenly. “You look a bit ruffled. Something wrong?”

“Yes,” said Sir Ardsley. “The Queen of Poland has just tried to kill me.”

“She whaaaaa...?!”

“Oh, politics. I'm sure you can work out the motivations; you're as good at statecraft as most people here. It's just beginning to dawn on me what a narrow escape I had.”

“It's not her motivations that baffle me,” said Agatha. “I mean, she was all over you, or she was trying to be. I could have sworn she was scheming to try to drag you off somewhere for a spot of diplomatic adultery, not kill you.”

Sir Ardsley blushed scarlet. “Er, yes, I'm afraid she was, and that appears to have been what saved my life. She hesitated. She made the mistake of looking at me while she was doing so. I saw the indecision and the guilt, and... well, she was fumbling with a pin, I'd already survived one poisoning attempt, and I put two and two together very fast.”

“Well,” said Agatha. “I knew I was rescuing you, but I hadn't _quite_ realised what from. I suppose that's going to knock Sylwia's chances on the head, then, isn't it? I heard the Tsar found out about that little incident with his uncle, and was... rather pleased with you about it.”

“Ah, Gil told you? Yes, indeed. Still, I'm sure Sylwia will have no difficulty in finding a suitable husband.”

“She can have Tarvek,” suggested Agatha. “Oh, wait. No. No, she can't. Maybe she can have Gil... er...”

“If she's anything like her mother, perhaps a Jäger might be the safest bet,” suggested Sir Ardsley wryly. “They're very hard to kill.”

Agatha laughed. “Perhaps I'll make Maxim a knight or something. I think Sylwia's his type, and, well, he's a handsome fellow. They'd make a fine pair.” She paused. “But, you know... don't take this the wrong way, Sir Ardsley, because you know I think very highly of you, but I'm a little surprised a tough nut like Queen Ewa lost her heart to you so quickly. You're so low-key that, even though you do look really splendid tonight, I'm surprised you made such an impression. She's a queen, after all. She's permanently surrounded by splendid-looking men.”

“Even so swiftly may one catch the plague,” Sir Ardsley quoted.

Agatha frowned. “Is that Shakespeare?”

“Well done, Lady Heterodyne. Indeed. _Twelfth Night_ , to be precise.”

Sometimes, he reflected, Shakespeare could be just a little too uncannily appropriate for comfort.


End file.
